Kiss Heaven Goodbye Part 45

And as he slipped his fingers inside her panties, feeling her wetness, dipping inside her, she groaned in pleasure. And she knew she had finally come home.

49

March 2005

From the twenty-fifth floor, Las Vegas lost some of its glamour. Standing at the window of the Ash Corp. Vegas office, Miles could see the whole of the Strip and much of it looked like a building site. At night, when the neon and the funfair fantasies of the castles and the pirate s.h.i.+ps were all lit up, Las Vegas still looked like a day-glo rollercoaster of fun and sin, but in the harsh desert suns.h.i.+ne, you could see behind the facades and hotel fronts and it just looked dusty and a little forlorn.

'So where are we up to with buying the Aladdin?'

He turned back to face Michael Marshall, the American attorney he had appointed to oversee Ash Corp.'s commercial property interests, including the acquisition of a Las Vegas casino. The lawyer was a serious-looking man in his thirties with a straight nose and dark eyes.

'I'll be frank, Miles. I don't think it's going to happen,' he said.

Miles frowned. Since he had taken over his father's company, he had become used to the marketing speak and double-talk of the business world. Everything was 'in the pipeline' or being 'run up the flagpole'. They hid behind bland cliches either because they didn't know what they were doing, or because they didn't want to tell the boss that they couldn't give him what he wanted.

'That's not what I want to hear, Michael,' said Miles.

'I appreciate that,' said Marshall.'But the facts are clear. Las Vegas is essentially a closed shop of Nevada-based investors creating a front for a number of well-connected syndicates and individuals, the biggest of which being the Mormons, who own most of the land out here. In short, the people who own Vegas don't want you here and you can sympathise.'

'Sympathise?' said Miles. 'Whose side are you on, Marshall?'

The young lawyer gave a slight smile.'It's nothing personal, Miles. It's pure economics. Why allow an international player of Ash Corp.'s size and financial muscle on to the Strip? You're only going to take money away from them, especially given your own personal reputation for reinventing the wheel.'

Miles nodded. It was true: he was becoming a victim of his own success. His overhaul of the Ash Corp. hotel group had been a triumph. He had sold off the dead wood, then broken the remaining hotels down into groups prestige, business and affordable rebranded them and given all a complete refit from the bathroom tiles to the entertainment systems. It had cost the company hundreds of millions, but it had been a shrewd investment. Now people knew what they were getting from an Ash Corp. hotel: quality and value for money, even if they were staying in the James hotel chain at the budget end of the scale. At the top end of the market, the hotels were winning awards for unparalleled service and the interiors were being featured in design magazines. In the s.p.a.ce of a year, Miles had doubled capacity and trebled the turnover. No wonder the Las Vegas establishment were reluctant to allow him free rein in their own personal playground.

'OK, so what's the big stumbling block?' he asked, sitting down at his desk.

'Two things: construction and licensing. The gaming commission are raising questions about Ash Corp.'s experience in this sector.'

'We have gaming experience,' said Miles. 'Don't they know we own The Laing?' He knew it was a weak argument. The Laing was an old-school gentlemen's casino in Mayfair catering to high-rolling Middle Eastern sheikhs and the Euro-aristo circuit. It was chic and discreet and it made huge profits, but it was a world away from the large-scale walk-in casinos of Las Vegas.

'With respect, The Laing is a very different animal to say Caesars Palace, or the MGM. It's rather like comparing Le Gavroche to Pizza Hut.'

'So we buy in experience,' said Miles. 'We poach someone from Caesars or Steve Wynn's outfit.'

Marshall nodded. 'Already done. We have the general manager from Mandalay Bay to head up the team when we're ready to move and he's agreed to come on board as a consultant when we go in front of the gaming commission.'

'Good. I don't want to let this one slip through the net.'

The US was in the middle of a huge economic boom, but history told Miles that where there was a boom, bust wouldn't be too far behind. But a Las Vegas casino was as close as you could get to a recession-proof business: when times got hard, people wanted to gamble.

'How important is this to you, Miles?' said Marshall. 'Because it's going to take some, uh, shall we say, fancy footwork.'

Miles liked this man. He had only met Marshall twice before: once to sign off on his appointment, once to thrash out the initial approach to the gaming commission, but it was clear he was exactly the kind of man Miles needed in his organisation. Someone entirely focused on getting the job done, overcoming the obstacles by whatever means necessary. He also liked him on another level: Marshall was good-looking and energetic. Miles briefly allowed himself to imagine a scenario, then pushed it away. Back to business, Back to business, he smiled to himself as the lawyer brought out a file. he smiled to himself as the lawyer brought out a file.

'What do you have there?'

'A proposal for the casino project. I've done some initial projections, and to cut to the chase, getting blackballed in Vegas might be a blessing in disguise. Nothing is cheap in Vegas at the best of times and construction costs here are insane. I'm projecting one point five billion US and that's conservative.'

'Jesus,' said Miles. Even for a company of the size of Ash Corp., that was an enormous investment, more so when you considered they were putting all their eggs in one basket. But Miles hated being told 'no' and he hated being blackballed even more. He looked at Marshall. 'Tell me about this fancy footwork of yours.'

Marshall paused for a moment. 'My gut feeling is we're banging our heads against a brick wall with the commission. Plus, none of the existing casinos are going to approve of us building a rival right next door to them, especially with the Wynn just opening.'

'Agreed. So what do we do?'

'It's a little left field, but I think it can work. We already have a hotel in Vegas we remodel that.'

The Las Vegas James hotel was part of an old low-end Ash Corp. hotel chain, more of a motel-c.u.m-flophouse jammed between the Stardust and the Frontier, two of the more run-down casinos at the north end of the Vegas Strip, away from all the glitz and glamour of the newer casinos such as the Bellagio and the Luxor to the south. Miles pulled a face.

'The James hotel is a stinker, Michael. It's in the wrong part of town. We can't even get the fifty-dollar-a-night slot machine crowd in there.'

'That's where the left-field idea comes in,' said the lawyer. 'We forget the casino and concentrate on the hotel. Do what you do best, high-end luxury. Make it exclusive and hard to get in.'

'But we're missing the point of the exercise,' said Miles. 'The money is in the gamblers. The casino can make a million dollars on one spin of the wheel.'

'And you can lose it too,' said Marshall. 'OK, so a hotel isn't going to make that sort of money, but we have the s.p.a.ce for a six-hundred room all-suite hotel, and if we establish it as the the place to stay on the Strip ...' place to stay on the Strip ...'

'But why would the high-rollers stay so far from the action?'

'That's your job, Miles. No one is better at persuading people that your establishment is the only place to be.'

Miles nodded. 'OK, but even so, it's still a wasteland up there.'

Marshall smiled. 'The big guns are moving north, they have to. Trump is looking in the north end and Wynn's already there. If those guys are there, it's on the money. Plus there's even talk of a huge retail park.'

'How do you know?'

Marshall shrugged modestly. 'I've seen some development plans, heard a few rumours. It's my job, Miles. It's one of the things you pay me for.'

He pushed forward another doc.u.ment. It was a set of drawings of how the remodelled hotel could look. It looked great chic, tasteful, relaxed, everything Vegas was not. Miles raised an eyebrow at the name above the door.

'Vegas Laing?' he said.

'The brand is already established,' said Marshall. 'It says European, exclusive, stylish, all the things you stand for, Miles. It says quiet money.'

Miles laughed. 'Quiet money. Two words to sum up Vegas.'

Marshall nodded.'People like to flash their wealth in Vegas, that's true, but that will change if the economy takes a downturn. And the real high-rollers prefer staying under the radar.'

Miles turned the pages of the doc.u.ment and found more drawings of a much bigger development. 'And what's this?'

'This is the future,' said Marshall, walking around the desk. He pointed to a sketch of a high-rise building. 'This is phase two. Once we're established on the Strip, we stand a much better chance of getting past the gaming commission to build a proper casino resort. Even if we don't get permission to build a casino at the Laing, we could build off the Strip where the land is cheaper.'

Miles traced a finger over the plans, enjoying having Michael standing so close to him. 'Is there room?'

'It's a deceptively big plot,' said Marshall, 'but the rumour I hear is that the Stardust and Frontier are leaking money. One or both could go under in the next six months. If that's the case, we could either demolish them or absorb them into the Laing.'

Miles looked up. 'My word, Mr Marshall,' he smiled, 'you are full of surprises today.'

'As I say, that's what you pay me for,' said Marshall, gathering up his files. As he walked back around the desk, Miles took in his lean physique.

'Well perhaps we'd better think about giving you a raise,' he said.

50

Sasha had wanted to open a Moscow branch of Rivera ever since the ultra-rich, high-spending tide of Russians began sweeping into London. She'd spent eighteen months doing her homework on the former Soviet capital, working out what the high net worth women of the city would want. If there was one thing Sasha had learnt from her time in the global fas.h.i.+on industry, it was that while all women loved shopping, their spending habits varied from country to country. The French bought fewer, more cla.s.sic items, but they were prepared to pay for quality, while the Brits were more into trend-led impulse purchases. So when her research revealed that rich Russians liked their fas.h.i.+on to be an overt statement of their new-found wealth, she set out to make the launch of the Rivera Moscow a lavish, no-expenses-spared event, hiring the most prestigious firm of party planners to make it happen.

As the Rivera store was only small she couldn't believe the price of premium retail s.p.a.ce in Moscow they had decided to host the trunk show and party at one of the city's prestigious venues. There had been an embarra.s.sment of options: from the State Museum, whose address of One Red Square had almost swung it, to the Park Hyatt hotel which served c.o.c.ktails at forty dollars a pop. In the end she had plumped for the library dining room of the Cafe Pushkin, which had practically become the local canteen for oligarchs, Russian politicos and supermodels.

They arrived in force. Men fattened with the proceeds of the newly capitalistic state. Wives dripping in sable mink and pink diamonds. Girlfriends and mistresses with angular faces and beautiful bodies. Sasha wasn't intimidated; she knew she could compete with any of them. She had upped her personal Pilates cla.s.ses from three to five times a week which had made her body even leaner than usual, and the quarter-head of Botox had smoothed her skin and given her a glow. Her favourite dress from the Spring/Summer collection had been customised especially for the Russian market, with crystal embellishment and a lower scooped neckline, accessorised by high metallic Rivera heels and a b.u.t.ter-soft Rivera clutch. Not only was she working hard to make Rivera a global brand, she knew she had to position it as a luxury goods company and not simply a fas.h.i.+on house.

'Do you speak English?' asked a male voice behind her.

She turned round to see a slim man in his late twenties with incredible blue eyes.

'Of course I do,' she replied. 'I own the company.'

'Phew!' said the man, miming wiping his brow. 'I thought I was going to have to walk around saying da da and and niet niet all night, hoping I got lucky.' all night, hoping I got lucky.'

'Well, I can teach you the Russian for "The Rivera store opens on Sat.u.r.day" if you like.'

They laughed complicitly.

'Have we met before?' she asked and he smiled.

'I get that a lot; I'm covered in a helmet half the time.' He held out his hand. 'Josh Steel. I'm a racing driver.'

'Sasha Sinclair.'

'I know,' he said with a flirtatious smile.

'What are you doing in Moscow? I didn't know there was a race here.'

'There isn't,' said Josh. 'The season hasn't started. But our team are looking for sponsors. I'm kind of here to schmooze.'

And so am I, thought Sasha, feeling cross with herself for wasting time on someone who wasn't going to buy her clothes. thought Sasha, feeling cross with herself for wasting time on someone who wasn't going to buy her clothes.

'Well, good luck with the language barrier,' she said, spotting the wife of a high-ranking politician across the room.'I've got to mingle.'

Two hours later, the show was over and Sasha was glowing with a social and business triumph. Rivera's Russian PR Karla had already warned her that they might have to reorder stock before the Rivera store had even opened already a handful of women had proclaimed that they wanted 'everything', and neither Sasha nor Karla thought they were joking. Slipping on her russet-red fox fur, Sasha headed out into the chilly Moscow night air. She was the last to leave Cafe Pushkin and she was left alone on Pushkin Square.

Where's my b.l.o.o.d.y car? she thought anxiously. The last thing she wanted was to get stuck in the middle of nowhere, not even knowing the word for 'hotel'. The white boxy shape of a Muscovite taxi turned the corner. Cold, tired and desperate to get back to her hotel, she put her hand out to stop it. she thought anxiously. The last thing she wanted was to get stuck in the middle of nowhere, not even knowing the word for 'hotel'. The white boxy shape of a Muscovite taxi turned the corner. Cold, tired and desperate to get back to her hotel, she put her hand out to stop it.

'Hey, missus,' called an amused voice. 'You don't want to be getting into taxis all alone at night.' Josh Steel was leaning out of the window of a black Mercedes, his blue eyes twinkling.

'I'm screwed then, aren't I?' she said.

'Too early to tell.' He grinned, popping the pa.s.senger door open.

She walked across and got in.

'What hotel are you at?'

'Park Hyatt.'

'Splendid, so am I,' he said, gunning the engine.

'I hope you're going to stick to the speed limit, Mr Steel,' she said in mock alarm.

He smiled. 'I'm fast but I'm safe.'

'I bet you say that to all the girls.'

Back at the hotel, Sasha pretended to hesitate when he asked her for a drink. They took the elevator up to the tenth floor bar, overlooking the city, packed with businessmen and blondes wearing jewels as big as ice cubes.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, the drinks are expensive,' said Josh, flipping through the menu.

'I didn't realise you were looking for a cheap date,' said Sasha.

'Just social observation. Down the street you can get vodka for fifty roubles.'

'The Russian way. Everything is either very cheap or very expensive. They're still caught between communism and capitalism.'

They slipped into easy conversation, swapping stories about their lives and people they knew in common. Josh was easy-going and fun, 'the only way you can deal with such a stressful job', he reasoned. It felt like a long time since Sasha had really laughed, and not talked about business, just fun throwaway things like people, parties and gossip. She loved that they were in such an exotic, alien environment and yet she could feel so familiar and relaxed with this stranger.

'How do you think it went tonight?' said Josh, swirling the vodka around the bottom of his gla.s.s.

'Very well,' said Sasha. 'Which is a relief, as Rivera's investors were divided over whether we should even have the party. They were worried we might devalue the brand if we were too aligned with new Russian money. It's preposterous! I mean, where does that logic lead? We don't sell to the Chinese because of their human rights track record?'

He held his hands up and laughed. 'OK, OK, I'm on your side. Maybe we shouldn't talk about business.'

'Sorry.' Sasha winced. 'Was I ranting?'

He held up his thumb and forefinger. 'Just a little.'